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Three long and weary months — yet not a whisper
Of stern reproach for that cold parting! Then
She sat no longer by her favorite fountain :
She was at rest forever.


The same, January 15, 1825.

Here rest the weary oar ! - soft airs

Breathe out in the o'erarching sky;
And Night – sweet Night — serenely wears

A smile of peace : 'her noon is nigh.

Where the tall fir in quiet stands,

And waves, embracing the chaste shores,
Move over sea-shells and bright sands,

Is heard the sound of dipping oars.

Swift o'er the wave the light bark springs,

Love's midnight hour draws lingering near ;
And list ! - his tuneful viol strings

The young Venetian Gondolier.

Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,

On earth, and her embosomed lakes,
And where the silent rivers sweep,

From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks.

Soft music breathes around, and dies

On the calm bosom of the sea;
Whilst in her cell the novice sighs

Her vespers to her rosary.

At their dim altars bow fair forms,

In tender charity for those,
That, helpless left to life's rude storms,

Have never found this calm repose.

The bell swings to its midnight chime,

Relieved against the deep blue sky.
Haste ! - dip the oar again - 't is time

To seek Genevra's balcony.


Inserted in a number of The Lay Monastery (a short series
of essays contributed by Mr. Longfellow to The United States
Literary Gazette), March 15, 1825.

From the river's plashy bank,
Where the sedge grows green and rank,

And the twisted woodbine springs,


Upward speeds the morning lark
To its silver cloud — and hark !

On his way the woodman sings.

On the dim and misty lakes
Gloriously the morning breaks,

And the eagle 's on his cloud :-
Whilst the wind, with sighing, wooes
To its arms the chaste cold ooze,

And the rustling reeds pipe loud.

Where the embracing ivy holds
Close the hoar elm in its folds,

In the meadow's fenny land,
And the winding river sweeps
Through its shallows and still deeps, –

Silent with my rod I stand.

But when sultry suns are high
Underneath the oak I lie

As it shades the water's edge,
And I mark my line, away
In the wheeling eddy, play,

Tangling with the river sedge.

When the eye of evening looks
On green woods and winding brooks,

And the wind sighs o'er the lea,
Woods and streams, - I leave you then,
While the shadow in the glen

Lengthens by the greenwood tree.


Published in the Portland Advertiser, June 10, 1825.

They showed us near the outlet of Sebago, the Lover's Rock, from which an Indian maid threw herself down into the lake, when the guests were coming together to the marriage festival of her false-hearted lover. — Leaf from a Traveller's Journal.

There is a love that cannot die !

And some their doom have met
Heart-broken- and gone as stars go by,

That rise, and burn, and set.
Their days were in Spring's fallen leaf

- and young — and bright - and brief.

There is a love that cannot die !

- it survives the grave;
When life goes out with many a sigh,

And earth takes what it gave,

Its light is on the home of those
That heed not when the cold wind blows.

With us there are sad records left

Of life's declining day :
How true hearts here were broken and cleft,

And how they passed away.
And yon dark rock, that swells above
Its blue lake has a tale of love.

'Tis of an Indian maid, whose fate

Was saddened by the burst
Of passion, that made desolate

The heart it filled at first.
Her lover was false-hearted, - yet
Her love she never could forget.

It was a summer-day, and bright

The sun was going down :
The wave lay blushing in rich light

Beneath the dark rock's frown,
And under the green maple's shade
Her lover's bridal feast was made.

She stood upon the rocky steep,

Grief had her heart unstrung,
And far across the lake's blue sweep

Was heard the dirge she sung.
It ceased - and in the deep cold wave,
The Indian Girl has made her grave.


The United States Literary Gazette, March 15, 1825.

By yon still river, where the wave

Is winding slow at evening's close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,

Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O'er the fair woods the sun looks down

Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight's mellow shades are brown,

Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,

And hardly waves the sapling tree :
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air

Is full of balm - but where is she !

They bade her wed a son of pride,

And leave the hopes she cherished long : She loved but one and would not hide

A love which knew a wrong.

And months went sadly on — and years :

And she was wasting day by day :
At length she died - and many tears

Were shed, that she should pass away.

Then came a gray old man, and knelt

With bitter weeping by her tomb :
And others mourned for him, who felt

That he had sealed a daughter's doom.

The funeral train has long past on,

And time wiped dry the father's tear! Farewell - lost maiden !- there is one

That mourns thee yet — and he is here.


The same, same date.

As the dim twilight shrouds

The mountain's purple crest,
And Summer's white and folded clouds

Are glowing in the west,
Loud shouts come up the rocky dell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.

Faint is the goatherd's song,

And sighing comes the breeze:
The silent river sweeps along

Amid its bending trees —
And the full moon shines faintly there,
And music fills the evening air.

Beneath the waving firs

The tinkling cymbals sound;
And as the wind the foliage stirs,

I see the dancers bound
Where the green branches, arched above,
Bend over this fair scene of love.

And he is there, that sought

My young heart long ago!
But he has left me - though I thought

He ne'er could leave me so.
Ah! lovers' vows — how frail are they!
And his — were made but yesterday.

Why comes he not? I call

In tears upon him yet ;
'T were better ne'er to love at all,

Than love, and then forget!
Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could.

But see — he leaves the glade,

And beckons me away:
He comes to seek his mountain maid !

I cannot chide his stay.
Glad sounds along the valley swell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.


The same, May 15, 1825.

When the summer harvest was gathered in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,
An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,
Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.

He was a stranger there, and all that day
Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet.
And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.

The winds of autumn came over the woods
As the sun stole out from their solitudes

The moss was white on the maple's trunk,
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk,
And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Were the tree's withered leaves round it shed.

The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn -
The mower sung loud by the meadow-side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsmen came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hewed down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flashed over his mind
Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.

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